


A Place of Comfort

by Verecunda



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kisses, M/M, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 01:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: While on the trail of a suspect, Mr. Bucket and Mr. Venus have plenty of time for their usual ruminations.





	A Place of Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on tumblr, for a set of kiss prompts. For themalhambird, who requested Bucket/Venus + discreetly. I was over the moon to have something to write for these two at last!

The tap of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters public-house was compact to the point of suffocation, but as it was always full of loyal patrons, most of them watermen and workers from the wharves, it was ideal for anyone who wished to be unobtrusive, and its windows offered a good (if grimy) view of the street. It was therefore for these purposes that Inspector Bucket and Mr. Venus had shouldered themselves a place among the throng, and were now sitting at a table directly by one of these windows.

“I think we have a long watch ahead of us tonight,” said Mr. Venus.

“Excellent,” muttered Mr. Bucket. They had taken their seats a bare quarter of an hour before, and already he could feel his muscles protesting against the hard benches. “Before this night is over, I rather think I'll be as warped out of shape as the beams holding up the roof of this place.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Venus, “I can soon put that right.”

A smile darted out at the corner of Mr. Bucket’s mouth. “Quite so. At least Mrs. Bucket has provided us with articles for our comfort.” So saying, he unpacked two rugs and set them on the narrow space between them on the bench.

“An excellent woman, Mrs. Bucket,” said Mr. Venus.

“The very best,” agreed Mr. Bucket. They touched their glasses together in salutation to that lady - lemon cordial in Mr. Venus’, something purporting to be sherry in Mr. Bucket’s - before turning to the window and settling down to their vigil.

Outside the dense ale and tobacco-scented atmosphere of the Fellowship, it was a cold night, and a mist was coming in off the Thames, wending its way through the twisted maze of alleys and courts that thronged the river-front, making weird ghostly shapes of everyday things, and of the people who flitted in and out of sight through the narrow doorways and arches that gave onto the street. A great deal and variety of people, for the river-front was always busy, even at night, upon errands that straddled both sides of the law.

The court which they presently had under observation saw its own share of this human traffic, and more than many of the others. People from all walks of life: men and women, a substantial number of sailors and river folk, but also a great many others - poor working people and prosperous gentlemen in their most nondescript clothes. Mr. Bucket studied each one closely as they went in. Most of them wore heavy coats and scarfs, muffled against the cold, and against recognition, but he did not let that deter him. Their suspect was a man of a very striking figure, and even in such a fog, he was confident of picking him out from the rest. Even if he chose to wrap himself up, the scarf which he habitually wore was a most singular one, very long and of a distinctive black silk weave, which would identify its wearer as surely as any of his own features.

For some time, he and Mr. Venus watched them come and go in silence. They came singly, or in small groups, some bold, some furtive. But however they went in, they all came out again with the same bewildered, sleepwalking air, confused by their surroundings, and even from this vantage point, the sickly-sweet taint of opium smoke seemed to cling to them like a ghost as they shambled away into the darkness, swallowed up by the greater smoke of the city, looking none the better for their ordeal.

“Poor souls,” murmured Mr. Bucket, as they watched another one go on her way - a poor ragged slip of a thing, who looked still shy of twenty. “Wonder what it is that drives them to such things. How desperate they must be.”

“All lives have their share of unhappiness,” said Mr Venus. “Some are not so well-prepared to face it. Whether from the bottle or the pipe, they seek an escape.”

“Some escape,” said Bucket, with a sigh. “Out of the frying pan, and straight into the fire.”

Such dens were thick in the grim corners of the city, particularly along the river, and his profession had led him to a disagreeable familiarity with most of them. They were all of them the same: the poor creatures crammed inside like peas in a pod, sprawled three or four to a bed. Close quarters, but every one of them utterly alone, lost in a fog of opium smoke, locked in their own solitary dreams - and those rarely good ones, to judge from the agitation and vague, formless cries he had so often observed. Hardly the escape they could have been seeking. No doubt they only realised that too late, after the need for it had taken hold of them. It was one of the greatest desolations he could imagine, one of the worst sorts of loneliness, and he was glad of the comfortable familiarity of Mr. Venus’ presence at his side tonight.

“Of course,” went on Mr. Venus, “perhaps there are those who wish, not to escape the darkness, but to seek it out.”

Bucket glanced at him, sensing from the meditative tone of his voice that his friend was about to embark upon some interesting line of thought. “You think so?”

Mr. Venus shrugged. “The darkness holds a fascination for us all, Inspector. It merely takes different forms for each of us. For me, it is the abnormalities of nature: the deformed primate, the aberrations of anatomy. For you, it is in fathoming the ways of the felon’s mind. Perhaps there are some who take up the pipe to fathom the darkness within themselves, only to find themselves lost within it.”

Mr. Bucket gave a ruminative nod or two as he considered this. There was no denying that Mr. Venus’ own brand of philosophy was _novel_ \- to say the least - but it was never uninteresting, and often surprisingly to the purpose.

“Our suspect, now,” he said, deciding to apply the Venusian theory to their present case. “Which one do you suppose he is? Does he wish to escape the darkness within himself, or indulge it?”

“Hard to say,” said Mr. Venus, taking a deliberating sip of his cordial. “A very mysterious man, our choirmaster.”

“A very dissatisfied man,” said Mr. Bucket with great emphasis, bringing to mind all he had observed of their suspect so far. He rubbed his finger against his nose as he put his thoughts in order. “There’s a restlessness about him, as if he is not quite settled in his mode of life. As if it’s not precisely his vocation, but something imposed upon him.”

For his own part, he found it difficult to imagine how anyone could be dissatisfied in such a calling. Apart from domestic happiness, music was one of the things that had most consistently brought him joy over the years. There was purity in music, he often thought, something capable of raising his spirits above the dark scenes he was required to witness every day. Their mysterious choirmaster must be a very dissatisfied man indeed, he thought, if he was unable to find solace in such a calling.

“Ah,” said Mr. Venus softly, “not everyone is so fortunate as to find their true place in life, Mr. Bucket. We are blessed, you and I, that we have been able to find a place that suits us so comfortably.”

At these words, Mr. Bucket softened into a true smile. “Right you are, Mr. Venus. Right you are.”

Carefully - for although they were afforded some little privacy by an old wooden partition, they were not quite out of sight of their fellow patrons - he laid his hand on Mr. Venus’, warm and sturdy where it rested on the bench beside him. They shared a glance, an unspoken accord, sealed by Mr. Venus leaning in quickly to graze his lips against Bucket’s cheek; then they resumed their former positions, and returned to their watch.


End file.
